The goal that Sankhyas gain, by Yogins too is won।
He truly sees who sees Sankhya and Yoga as one।। 5।।
Geeta Darshan #3
Available in:
Read in Original Hindi (मूल हिन्दी)
Sutra (Original)
यत्सांख्यैः प्राप्यते स्थानं तद्योगैरपि गम्यते।
एकं सांख्यं च योगं च यः पश्यति स पश्यति।। 5।।
एकं सांख्यं च योगं च यः पश्यति स पश्यति।। 5।।
Transliteration:
yatsāṃkhyaiḥ prāpyate sthānaṃ tadyogairapi gamyate|
ekaṃ sāṃkhyaṃ ca yogaṃ ca yaḥ paśyati sa paśyati|| 5||
yatsāṃkhyaiḥ prāpyate sthānaṃ tadyogairapi gamyate|
ekaṃ sāṃkhyaṃ ca yogaṃ ca yaḥ paśyati sa paśyati|| 5||
Translation (Meaning)
Questions in this Discourse
OSHO, on the first day you said that karma-sannyas is the path of the inward-turned person, and desireless action (nishkama karma) is the path of the outward-turned person. But people find that sometimes they are extroverted and sometimes introverted. In this situation, please explain how a person can decide precisely whether he is inward-turned or outward-turned.
Extroversion means that a person’s consciousness is constantly running outward. The object outside could be anything—money, religion, position, even God. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that the consciousness runs outward; the journey goes from within to without.
You can test this. Sit with your eyes closed. Watch where your consciousness runs. If you are extroverted, you’ll find it racing outward—thoughts of money, friends, enemies, even of God; the object will hold your mind outside. You’ll keep running outward.
It is the extroverted who place God up in the sky. Even when they fold their hands, they lift them to the sky. Ask, “Where is God?” and the extrovert will look upward. Ask the same of the introvert, and he will close his eyes and look within.
The sign of the introvert: when you sit with closed eyes, you find the mind not running outward but sinking inward. There will be a feeling of sinking, as if dropping into a river. The extrovert delights in running outward; to the introvert, sinking inward is bliss. To the extrovert, sinking within feels like death—“I will die; better do something.” To the introvert, thinking about outer affairs is painful, heavy, burdensome. The introvert seeks solitude; the extrovert wants the crowd. These are the signs.
Leave an introvert alone and he will be delighted; put him amid a crowd and he will become sad. Returning from a crowd, he will feel he has lost something; returning from solitude, he will feel fulfilled, as if coming back filled, having gained something. Put an extrovert in solitude and he wilts—pale, lifeless—the zest gone. Bring him to a club, a temple, a mosque, any crowd—life returns; the leaves green again, flowers bloom.
Each person should keep testing in the situations of life: does the inner current is eager to flow outward or eager to flow inward? Is the stream turning in (turning-in), or is it turning out (turning-out)?
You can test yourself. Do you feel better in a crowd or alone? If the room is empty and silent, do you like it? Or do you prefer someone there? When you sit idle, do you feel restless? Or do you feel relaxed, peaceful, silent? When guests arrive, do you feel good—or when they leave? Keep examining like this. If guests don’t come, do you become uneasy and start phoning around? If the newspaper is late, do you get jittery and switch on the radio? Do you ever leave yourself alone—really alone? Or must there always be a companion—friend, spouse, child—someone? Or do you sometimes relish that nobody be there—just you, alone? Taste it, recognize your flavor.
In today’s age, out of a hundred people, hardly one is naturally introverted. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred you will find you are extroverted. And if you are extroverted, don’t ever get entangled in paths designed for the introvert; you will suffer, and the only result will be frustration. If an extrovert plunges into introvert-oriented practices, he will deem himself sinful, guilty, hell-bound—because he won’t be able to be introvert. “I must be reaping sins from past lives! I sit to meditate and not for a moment does the mind become still—thoughts from everywhere!”
No. You have not recognized your swadharma—your own nature; hence the trouble. The greater difficulty in the East is that, Krishna aside, our towering figures—Buddha, Mahavira, Nagarjuna, Shankara—are all introverts. Their teachings have filled the Eastern mind with the ideal of the inward path. And ninety-nine percent are extroverts. Hence restlessness, confusion.
So the extrovert concludes, “Religion is not for me. My fate doesn’t include it. The mind never becomes silent; nothing reveals within; I simply can’t go inside. I must be suffering the fruits of past karmas.” Not necessary. You are suffering a misunderstanding. You haven’t seen clearly that you are extroverted. If you are extroverted, the religious form must be entirely different for you. You need a religion that can use your outward-running energy. For the introvert, meditation; for the extrovert, prayer.
Notice: meditation and prayer are very different paths. Meditation is the religion of the inward-turned; prayer is the religion of the outward-turned. In meditation, even God has no place. Meditation means utterly alone—alone, and alone—reaching the point where only I am, nothing else remains. Prayer means God; not one, but two. Ultimately, prayer arrives where only God remains and I am not. The fruits are the same, but prayer begins with the Other—God; meditation begins with oneself.
Hence the religions of meditation—like Jainism—deny God. Not because there is no God, but because for Mahavira, who is an introvert, God is non-essential. He will say: I myself am the divine; there is no other God. When he goes wholly inward, he arrives at the same space an extrovert reaches by praying to God.
Consider: the God-bound pilgrim says at the end, “God is; I am not.” The introvert says at the end, “I alone am—aham brahmasmi—there is no God.” They reach the same point, but their statements differ; their journeys differ. Different, not opposed. Because they meet at the same summit, those who know say it is one.
I told you: Krishna’s message to Arjuna is for the extrovert. Therefore it’s likely that in the future the Gita’s value will go on increasing—perhaps Krishna will be more useful than even Buddha or Mahavira—because consciousness is becoming more extroverted; man roams farther and farther outside.
If you must roam outside, then roam toward God—that’s the meaning of prayer. If you must run outward, don’t run after wealth, run toward the divine. If you need a friend, don’t seek a bodily friend; seek the bodiless friend. If you can’t do without a companion, don’t settle for the ordinary; find the supreme companion. If you must read, read the Gita instead of the newspaper. If you must listen to music, why the films? Listen to Meera or Kabir. Go outward, but turn the outward journey into a religious pilgrimage. Then you won’t feel guilty, nor feel like you’re sinning.
If an introvert falls into an extrovert religion, he too suffers. Standing before God with folded hands, as soon as he closes his eyes, God’s image disappears—he is left alone. He worries: “What a sinner I am! I remember God so much, but no image forms within.” For the introvert, no image of God will form within; only the extrovert can form it. The introvert immediately slips inward; images remain outside—God’s image too. All images are outer; the formless alone remains. He too is troubled.
Thus, an introvert in Christianity or Islam often faces trouble, for those are extrovert religions. A born extrovert in Mahavira’s path suffers, because that path is introvert.
Out of ignorance, followers of Mohammed cut Mansoor—an introvert—into two. They couldn’t understand him. Mansoor said, “Aham brahmasmi; Anal Haq—I am the Truth.” They said, “You are mad! Never say you are God. How can we, mere nothings, be God? This is blasphemy.” Mansoor replied, “Who else can say it but I? In fact, you too can say it.” Then they declared, “This is beyond all limits; the man is insane.”
When the religious order is extrovert, the introvert appears mad. They killed Mansoor. The difficulty is deep: an extrovert never understands the language of the introvert, nor the introvert that of the extrovert. Their languages are far apart.
Hence I said: for extroversion—nishkama karma-yoga; for introversion—karma-sannyas.
In truth, the introvert has no will to do; the very urge to act doesn’t arise. Action means doing something outside. Inside there can be no action—only consciousness. Action is possible only outside. If one’s practice is inward-turned, action drops away. Better to say: actions drop from him. Take Ramana, for example: all doing falls away—only the very minimum, unavoidable acts remain—sitting, standing, eating, drinking. He would do even these as if wishing he needn’t: “If only it could happen without getting up.” Look at Ramana’s photos: sitting on the same cushion all day. Even the hand insists, “Now enough; turn a little,” and he turns.
To the extrovert this looks like laziness, tamas: “Do something!” But in such a person no action arises. He smiles—inside all is silent; the current has turned within; he is absorbed in himself; no possibility of reaching action—even if he tries.
The extrovert is the opposite. Sit him down and he will at least keep shaking a leg. Once a man sat before Buddha, jiggling his leg while Buddha was speaking. Buddha stopped: “Why are you shaking your leg?” “Just like that. I didn’t even know.” Buddha said, “It is your leg, and you don’t know it’s shaking?” “It is mine.” “Then why are you shaking it?” “You ask difficult things! I can only say I can’t sit without shaking something. Even in sleep I mutter, I talk.”
Mahavira slept on one side the whole night; he wouldn’t turn. Buddha too. If asked why, they would say, “For no reason; one side is enough.” We turn and toss even while awake; they say even in sleep one side—and even that as a necessity: without at least one side you cannot sleep; take the minimum. How many times do you turn? Maximum. So much that even the bed gets tired!
Know yourself. If your mind’s tendency runs toward action, your path is desireless action. If your mind’s tendency runs toward non-action, your path is karma-sannyas. Both lead. People have reached by both; they always will.
But the balance of the age shifts. When the current is introvert, introvert religions arise. Nearly all Indian-born religions are introvert. Outside India, most are extrovert—Islam, Christianity. There, meditation did not develop; prayer sufficed. Meditation is the contribution of inward seekers.
Find out what is right for you. It isn’t hard. The tests are simple—and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred you are extrovert. Make a few rules for testing: How do you feel alone, how in the crowd? What is the taste of each? Alone, does the mouth turn bitter, or sweeten with nectar? In the crowd, does the taste turn sweet or acrid? Do you delight in action, or is it when you sink into rest that you feel good?
Note: rest is not laziness. There is a great difference. The lazy man is not in rest; he is merely avoiding exertion—an escape. Rest is a positive state, not negative; it is vibrant. Look at a statue of Buddha—he doesn’t appear lazy: the face glows, the eyes are luminous, the body has no shadow of sloth; it is like the light of an awakening dawn. Look at Mahavira standing—life streams from within. Not laziness, but rest.
Laziness is dull; rest is radiant. In rest the inner spring is brimming with energy, but the urge to act is absent. In laziness the urge to act may be there, but the energy isn’t—so one lies there. The heart dreams of being an Alexander or an Indira Gandhi—but the energy is missing. The lazy, lying in bed, travel no less than Alexander—only inside. There is a difference between laziness and rest.
Karma-sannyas is rest, not laziness. Both karma-yoga and karma-sannyas require energy. The lazy can be neither. He cannot be a karma-yogi—no energy to act. He cannot be a renunciate either—because to renounce also requires immense energy. The strength needed to hold a diamond is less than the strength needed to let it go. Try it: grip a coin; then drop it. You will see letting go requires more force.
Karma-sannyas demands strength; karma-yoga, of course, does too. For the lazy, neither path is available. If we speak precisely, the lazy are a third sex—neither male nor female; neither introvert nor extrovert—stuck on the threshold. They go nowhere—neither inward nor outward. Any journey needs courage and energy.
sannyasas tu maha-baho dukham aptum ayogatah
yoga-yukto munir brahma na cireṇadhigacchati (5.6)
But, O Arjuna! Without nishkama karma-yoga, sannyas—meaning the renunciation of the sense of doership in all actions of mind, senses, and body—is difficult to attain. And the one who contemplates the divine through selfless action quickly attains the Supreme Brahman.
Then Krishna speaks again. Perhaps he sees a glimmer in Arjuna’s eyes: “If both paths are valid, and the renouncer reaches the same as the doer, then let me drop action.” He wanted to drop it anyway; that is why the dialogue is possible. “Now Krishna is coming around to my view. He’s saying what my heart wants: drop everything. If dropping also arrives, why take on the nuisance of this war!”
Such dreams must have flickered in his eyes; his mind got fresh justification. “I was right; then why such a long talk? When I laid down Gandiva and collapsed, Krishna should have said right then, ‘O mighty-armed, you have become a sannyasin; and sannyas too leads where action leads.’” He must have felt pleased—what he wanted seemed near, even on Krishna’s lips.
Seeing this, Krishna immediately says, “Arjuna, until desire drops and desirelessness in action is attained, leaving action is not easy.” Again he snatches away the comfort. “Unless you have dropped craving, how will you drop action? And if desire remains and you run away from action, the danger is that only the action will drop, not the desire.” To drop action is easy—in one sense.
A thief: put him in prison and the act of stealing ceases. Has sannyas happened? The act is gone, but the thief remains a thief. He waits for opportunity—may even emerge more expert, well-trained, with gurus in the art. He learns that punishment wasn’t for stealing, but for not stealing skillfully. No court or prison has ever freed a thief of thievery—only of the act, temporarily.
So too the renouncer often deceives himself: “In the market I feel greed; I will leave the market.” As if the market creates greed! Greed is inside. “Seeing a woman, lust arises; I will turn my back on women. Seeing position, ambition arises; I will go where there is no position.” You can flee from actions—but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, action drops and desire remains. Then under a tree in the forest you are the same person you were in the bazaar. The situation changes; the mind-state does not.
To change the mind-state is difficult. Krishna says: he who can change it here—why should he run? And he who cannot change it here—what guarantee will he change it there? I will go with myself—whether in Bombay’s market or on the Himalayas. The market will remain in Bombay, I will go to the Himalayas—but I carry my mind and its illnesses with me. You cannot leave them behind.
Yes, the mirror might be left here—but the face goes with you. Without a mirror you may not see it, but it’s still there; any lake may show it, any passerby’s eyes may reflect it.
I heard of a monk who stayed thirty years in the Himalayas to drop ego. He became sure it was gone—never a trace. He descended and settled near a village. People came—the mirrors returned. Some bowed to his feet, some called him a great saint. Something unknown for thirty years began to stir; he didn’t recognize it yet—long unrecognized, unfamiliar. Some warmth spread in the blood.
A great fair—Kumbh—was coming. The villagers insisted, “Such a great saint must attend.” He thought, “What is there to fear now? Ego is finished.” But even the thought “my ego is finished” is subtle ego. He went. In the huge crowd, no one knew him. If you don’t recognize a saint, what is the difference between saint and non-saint for you? Recognition makes the difference for you; the inner difference is beyond your grasp.
Someone stepped on his foot. Anger flared—he grabbed the man by the neck, “I’ll crush your throat! Don’t you know who I am?” Suddenly it struck him—thirty years vanished in a flash. He was again the man who had gone to the Himalayas. The calendar of thirty years flew away like in a film, and he stood where he had started—hand at the man’s throat.
He fell at the man’s feet. The man was bewildered. The monk said, “You have blessed me by stepping on my foot. What thirty years of the Himalayas couldn’t show me, your shoe has shown me in a moment: the ego remains.”
Krishna says: running away from action is not hard. But if desire has not gone, if desirelessness in action hasn’t been mastered, then leaving action won’t help.
He must have looked into Arjuna’s eyes and said, “Don’t think I’m telling you to run away. First master desireless action. If that happens, then you may even renounce.”
But the delightful paradox is: if desireless action is attained, renunciation or not makes no difference. Then it depends on your introversion or extroversion. With desirelessness attained, the extrovert will keep acting; the introvert will find actions cease of themselves. But freedom from craving is essential—non-negotiable. Hence Krishna reminds Arjuna again.
Throughout, Krishna reads Arjuna. And that is a guru: one who reads the disciple like an open book—each chapter of his life, each layer of his mind. A guru is not one who merely supplies doctrines, but one who arranges the path of transformation for the disciple.
Arjuna wants Krishna to say, “Leave it all.” Then he can beat the drum across the world: “Don’t call it my quitting—Krishna himself testified.” Deep down, being a kshatriya, he fears only one thing—that someone might call him a coward. He wants a philosophical cover under which to turn his back. “If you doubt me, ask Krishna—he is my witness.”
But he doesn’t know whom he’s taking as witness. To make Krishna your witness is not easy. From Krishna you cannot borrow support for escape. He can give revolution, not refuge; transformation, not cover for your weakness.
Therefore whenever Krishna says anything remotely supportive of renunciation, Arjuna brightens: “Yes, yes! Exactly!” I see this every day: people sit before saints and say, “Exactly right, Maharaj!”—precisely where they feel their dishonesty gets support. If a saint says, “The soul is pure; it never sins,” the sinners nod enthusiastically: “Exactly! This is what we say.” That is why sinners gather around saints—and unless the saint has the courage of Krishna, listeners are harmed, not helped. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, saints become supports for people’s deceptions.
Krishna won’t be that support. The moment Arjuna can manipulate a statement into a crutch, Krishna cuts it to pieces. “Do not fall into this mistake. Do not think leaving action is easy. Without desirelessness, it is very difficult.”
And he adds: “Arjuna, desireless action is simple.” What Arjuna finds hard, he calls simple; what Arjuna finds simple, he calls hard. Keep this in mind.
To Arjuna, dropping action seems easy: “Leaving one’s wife and shop is not hard—especially when bankruptcy looms! In sorrow anyone can drop; in joy none.” Until now Arjuna had never been in such a crisis. If the enmity were clear like a Hindu-Muslim riot, there’d be no problem—no uncles, gurus, relatives across the line. But this was a family war; on both sides were his own—those who had raised him, taught him, loved him. Whichever side wins or loses, the dead are his own. So he wavered and sought philosophical exits. Otherwise, he is a master of killing—he could kill and then eat his meal without washing his hands.
He thinks: the simplest is to drop all. And what a wrong charioteer he chose! Beware of making God your charioteer—he will take your chariot where you don’t want to go. The day you made Krishna your charioteer, you made trouble. Whoever takes Krishna as charioteer will not have an easy road; the path will be thorny, though the attainment will be bliss. With a wrong charioteer, the road is easy but ends in hell.
As soon as Krishna sees Arjuna feeling, “Now he is supporting me,” Krishna steps aside. “Remember: without mastering desireless action, you cannot renounce. First fight—fight in such a way that no longing for the fruits remains. If you can transcend the fruits through action, then you may renounce later.” Arjuna will protest: “What is the point of renouncing then? By then the kingdom will be in hand!” Krishna says: “Do the battle without craving. When the kingdom comes and the war has passed, and desirelessness is established, then renounce.”
To Arjuna this seems very hard: “Suffer through sorrow and renounce in joy!” But that is religion’s demand. In sorrow everyone wants to renounce; that is natural, not religious. To renounce in joy is a great, ‘impossible’ revolution—and Krishna says, Arjuna, you must pass through that impossible revolution.
Enough for today.
Now, for five minutes, no one will get up. Not a single one. Our sannyasins have no other prasad to distribute—they will share their kirtan with you for five minutes. Let it echo in your hearts as you go. Take that prasad with you. And in between, no one gets up; if one rises, others are forced to. Sit for five minutes, taste this joy—and then leave quietly.
You can test this. Sit with your eyes closed. Watch where your consciousness runs. If you are extroverted, you’ll find it racing outward—thoughts of money, friends, enemies, even of God; the object will hold your mind outside. You’ll keep running outward.
It is the extroverted who place God up in the sky. Even when they fold their hands, they lift them to the sky. Ask, “Where is God?” and the extrovert will look upward. Ask the same of the introvert, and he will close his eyes and look within.
The sign of the introvert: when you sit with closed eyes, you find the mind not running outward but sinking inward. There will be a feeling of sinking, as if dropping into a river. The extrovert delights in running outward; to the introvert, sinking inward is bliss. To the extrovert, sinking within feels like death—“I will die; better do something.” To the introvert, thinking about outer affairs is painful, heavy, burdensome. The introvert seeks solitude; the extrovert wants the crowd. These are the signs.
Leave an introvert alone and he will be delighted; put him amid a crowd and he will become sad. Returning from a crowd, he will feel he has lost something; returning from solitude, he will feel fulfilled, as if coming back filled, having gained something. Put an extrovert in solitude and he wilts—pale, lifeless—the zest gone. Bring him to a club, a temple, a mosque, any crowd—life returns; the leaves green again, flowers bloom.
Each person should keep testing in the situations of life: does the inner current is eager to flow outward or eager to flow inward? Is the stream turning in (turning-in), or is it turning out (turning-out)?
You can test yourself. Do you feel better in a crowd or alone? If the room is empty and silent, do you like it? Or do you prefer someone there? When you sit idle, do you feel restless? Or do you feel relaxed, peaceful, silent? When guests arrive, do you feel good—or when they leave? Keep examining like this. If guests don’t come, do you become uneasy and start phoning around? If the newspaper is late, do you get jittery and switch on the radio? Do you ever leave yourself alone—really alone? Or must there always be a companion—friend, spouse, child—someone? Or do you sometimes relish that nobody be there—just you, alone? Taste it, recognize your flavor.
In today’s age, out of a hundred people, hardly one is naturally introverted. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred you will find you are extroverted. And if you are extroverted, don’t ever get entangled in paths designed for the introvert; you will suffer, and the only result will be frustration. If an extrovert plunges into introvert-oriented practices, he will deem himself sinful, guilty, hell-bound—because he won’t be able to be introvert. “I must be reaping sins from past lives! I sit to meditate and not for a moment does the mind become still—thoughts from everywhere!”
No. You have not recognized your swadharma—your own nature; hence the trouble. The greater difficulty in the East is that, Krishna aside, our towering figures—Buddha, Mahavira, Nagarjuna, Shankara—are all introverts. Their teachings have filled the Eastern mind with the ideal of the inward path. And ninety-nine percent are extroverts. Hence restlessness, confusion.
So the extrovert concludes, “Religion is not for me. My fate doesn’t include it. The mind never becomes silent; nothing reveals within; I simply can’t go inside. I must be suffering the fruits of past karmas.” Not necessary. You are suffering a misunderstanding. You haven’t seen clearly that you are extroverted. If you are extroverted, the religious form must be entirely different for you. You need a religion that can use your outward-running energy. For the introvert, meditation; for the extrovert, prayer.
Notice: meditation and prayer are very different paths. Meditation is the religion of the inward-turned; prayer is the religion of the outward-turned. In meditation, even God has no place. Meditation means utterly alone—alone, and alone—reaching the point where only I am, nothing else remains. Prayer means God; not one, but two. Ultimately, prayer arrives where only God remains and I am not. The fruits are the same, but prayer begins with the Other—God; meditation begins with oneself.
Hence the religions of meditation—like Jainism—deny God. Not because there is no God, but because for Mahavira, who is an introvert, God is non-essential. He will say: I myself am the divine; there is no other God. When he goes wholly inward, he arrives at the same space an extrovert reaches by praying to God.
Consider: the God-bound pilgrim says at the end, “God is; I am not.” The introvert says at the end, “I alone am—aham brahmasmi—there is no God.” They reach the same point, but their statements differ; their journeys differ. Different, not opposed. Because they meet at the same summit, those who know say it is one.
I told you: Krishna’s message to Arjuna is for the extrovert. Therefore it’s likely that in the future the Gita’s value will go on increasing—perhaps Krishna will be more useful than even Buddha or Mahavira—because consciousness is becoming more extroverted; man roams farther and farther outside.
If you must roam outside, then roam toward God—that’s the meaning of prayer. If you must run outward, don’t run after wealth, run toward the divine. If you need a friend, don’t seek a bodily friend; seek the bodiless friend. If you can’t do without a companion, don’t settle for the ordinary; find the supreme companion. If you must read, read the Gita instead of the newspaper. If you must listen to music, why the films? Listen to Meera or Kabir. Go outward, but turn the outward journey into a religious pilgrimage. Then you won’t feel guilty, nor feel like you’re sinning.
If an introvert falls into an extrovert religion, he too suffers. Standing before God with folded hands, as soon as he closes his eyes, God’s image disappears—he is left alone. He worries: “What a sinner I am! I remember God so much, but no image forms within.” For the introvert, no image of God will form within; only the extrovert can form it. The introvert immediately slips inward; images remain outside—God’s image too. All images are outer; the formless alone remains. He too is troubled.
Thus, an introvert in Christianity or Islam often faces trouble, for those are extrovert religions. A born extrovert in Mahavira’s path suffers, because that path is introvert.
Out of ignorance, followers of Mohammed cut Mansoor—an introvert—into two. They couldn’t understand him. Mansoor said, “Aham brahmasmi; Anal Haq—I am the Truth.” They said, “You are mad! Never say you are God. How can we, mere nothings, be God? This is blasphemy.” Mansoor replied, “Who else can say it but I? In fact, you too can say it.” Then they declared, “This is beyond all limits; the man is insane.”
When the religious order is extrovert, the introvert appears mad. They killed Mansoor. The difficulty is deep: an extrovert never understands the language of the introvert, nor the introvert that of the extrovert. Their languages are far apart.
Hence I said: for extroversion—nishkama karma-yoga; for introversion—karma-sannyas.
In truth, the introvert has no will to do; the very urge to act doesn’t arise. Action means doing something outside. Inside there can be no action—only consciousness. Action is possible only outside. If one’s practice is inward-turned, action drops away. Better to say: actions drop from him. Take Ramana, for example: all doing falls away—only the very minimum, unavoidable acts remain—sitting, standing, eating, drinking. He would do even these as if wishing he needn’t: “If only it could happen without getting up.” Look at Ramana’s photos: sitting on the same cushion all day. Even the hand insists, “Now enough; turn a little,” and he turns.
To the extrovert this looks like laziness, tamas: “Do something!” But in such a person no action arises. He smiles—inside all is silent; the current has turned within; he is absorbed in himself; no possibility of reaching action—even if he tries.
The extrovert is the opposite. Sit him down and he will at least keep shaking a leg. Once a man sat before Buddha, jiggling his leg while Buddha was speaking. Buddha stopped: “Why are you shaking your leg?” “Just like that. I didn’t even know.” Buddha said, “It is your leg, and you don’t know it’s shaking?” “It is mine.” “Then why are you shaking it?” “You ask difficult things! I can only say I can’t sit without shaking something. Even in sleep I mutter, I talk.”
Mahavira slept on one side the whole night; he wouldn’t turn. Buddha too. If asked why, they would say, “For no reason; one side is enough.” We turn and toss even while awake; they say even in sleep one side—and even that as a necessity: without at least one side you cannot sleep; take the minimum. How many times do you turn? Maximum. So much that even the bed gets tired!
Know yourself. If your mind’s tendency runs toward action, your path is desireless action. If your mind’s tendency runs toward non-action, your path is karma-sannyas. Both lead. People have reached by both; they always will.
But the balance of the age shifts. When the current is introvert, introvert religions arise. Nearly all Indian-born religions are introvert. Outside India, most are extrovert—Islam, Christianity. There, meditation did not develop; prayer sufficed. Meditation is the contribution of inward seekers.
Find out what is right for you. It isn’t hard. The tests are simple—and in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred you are extrovert. Make a few rules for testing: How do you feel alone, how in the crowd? What is the taste of each? Alone, does the mouth turn bitter, or sweeten with nectar? In the crowd, does the taste turn sweet or acrid? Do you delight in action, or is it when you sink into rest that you feel good?
Note: rest is not laziness. There is a great difference. The lazy man is not in rest; he is merely avoiding exertion—an escape. Rest is a positive state, not negative; it is vibrant. Look at a statue of Buddha—he doesn’t appear lazy: the face glows, the eyes are luminous, the body has no shadow of sloth; it is like the light of an awakening dawn. Look at Mahavira standing—life streams from within. Not laziness, but rest.
Laziness is dull; rest is radiant. In rest the inner spring is brimming with energy, but the urge to act is absent. In laziness the urge to act may be there, but the energy isn’t—so one lies there. The heart dreams of being an Alexander or an Indira Gandhi—but the energy is missing. The lazy, lying in bed, travel no less than Alexander—only inside. There is a difference between laziness and rest.
Karma-sannyas is rest, not laziness. Both karma-yoga and karma-sannyas require energy. The lazy can be neither. He cannot be a karma-yogi—no energy to act. He cannot be a renunciate either—because to renounce also requires immense energy. The strength needed to hold a diamond is less than the strength needed to let it go. Try it: grip a coin; then drop it. You will see letting go requires more force.
Karma-sannyas demands strength; karma-yoga, of course, does too. For the lazy, neither path is available. If we speak precisely, the lazy are a third sex—neither male nor female; neither introvert nor extrovert—stuck on the threshold. They go nowhere—neither inward nor outward. Any journey needs courage and energy.
sannyasas tu maha-baho dukham aptum ayogatah
yoga-yukto munir brahma na cireṇadhigacchati (5.6)
But, O Arjuna! Without nishkama karma-yoga, sannyas—meaning the renunciation of the sense of doership in all actions of mind, senses, and body—is difficult to attain. And the one who contemplates the divine through selfless action quickly attains the Supreme Brahman.
Then Krishna speaks again. Perhaps he sees a glimmer in Arjuna’s eyes: “If both paths are valid, and the renouncer reaches the same as the doer, then let me drop action.” He wanted to drop it anyway; that is why the dialogue is possible. “Now Krishna is coming around to my view. He’s saying what my heart wants: drop everything. If dropping also arrives, why take on the nuisance of this war!”
Such dreams must have flickered in his eyes; his mind got fresh justification. “I was right; then why such a long talk? When I laid down Gandiva and collapsed, Krishna should have said right then, ‘O mighty-armed, you have become a sannyasin; and sannyas too leads where action leads.’” He must have felt pleased—what he wanted seemed near, even on Krishna’s lips.
Seeing this, Krishna immediately says, “Arjuna, until desire drops and desirelessness in action is attained, leaving action is not easy.” Again he snatches away the comfort. “Unless you have dropped craving, how will you drop action? And if desire remains and you run away from action, the danger is that only the action will drop, not the desire.” To drop action is easy—in one sense.
A thief: put him in prison and the act of stealing ceases. Has sannyas happened? The act is gone, but the thief remains a thief. He waits for opportunity—may even emerge more expert, well-trained, with gurus in the art. He learns that punishment wasn’t for stealing, but for not stealing skillfully. No court or prison has ever freed a thief of thievery—only of the act, temporarily.
So too the renouncer often deceives himself: “In the market I feel greed; I will leave the market.” As if the market creates greed! Greed is inside. “Seeing a woman, lust arises; I will turn my back on women. Seeing position, ambition arises; I will go where there is no position.” You can flee from actions—but in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, action drops and desire remains. Then under a tree in the forest you are the same person you were in the bazaar. The situation changes; the mind-state does not.
To change the mind-state is difficult. Krishna says: he who can change it here—why should he run? And he who cannot change it here—what guarantee will he change it there? I will go with myself—whether in Bombay’s market or on the Himalayas. The market will remain in Bombay, I will go to the Himalayas—but I carry my mind and its illnesses with me. You cannot leave them behind.
Yes, the mirror might be left here—but the face goes with you. Without a mirror you may not see it, but it’s still there; any lake may show it, any passerby’s eyes may reflect it.
I heard of a monk who stayed thirty years in the Himalayas to drop ego. He became sure it was gone—never a trace. He descended and settled near a village. People came—the mirrors returned. Some bowed to his feet, some called him a great saint. Something unknown for thirty years began to stir; he didn’t recognize it yet—long unrecognized, unfamiliar. Some warmth spread in the blood.
A great fair—Kumbh—was coming. The villagers insisted, “Such a great saint must attend.” He thought, “What is there to fear now? Ego is finished.” But even the thought “my ego is finished” is subtle ego. He went. In the huge crowd, no one knew him. If you don’t recognize a saint, what is the difference between saint and non-saint for you? Recognition makes the difference for you; the inner difference is beyond your grasp.
Someone stepped on his foot. Anger flared—he grabbed the man by the neck, “I’ll crush your throat! Don’t you know who I am?” Suddenly it struck him—thirty years vanished in a flash. He was again the man who had gone to the Himalayas. The calendar of thirty years flew away like in a film, and he stood where he had started—hand at the man’s throat.
He fell at the man’s feet. The man was bewildered. The monk said, “You have blessed me by stepping on my foot. What thirty years of the Himalayas couldn’t show me, your shoe has shown me in a moment: the ego remains.”
Krishna says: running away from action is not hard. But if desire has not gone, if desirelessness in action hasn’t been mastered, then leaving action won’t help.
He must have looked into Arjuna’s eyes and said, “Don’t think I’m telling you to run away. First master desireless action. If that happens, then you may even renounce.”
But the delightful paradox is: if desireless action is attained, renunciation or not makes no difference. Then it depends on your introversion or extroversion. With desirelessness attained, the extrovert will keep acting; the introvert will find actions cease of themselves. But freedom from craving is essential—non-negotiable. Hence Krishna reminds Arjuna again.
Throughout, Krishna reads Arjuna. And that is a guru: one who reads the disciple like an open book—each chapter of his life, each layer of his mind. A guru is not one who merely supplies doctrines, but one who arranges the path of transformation for the disciple.
Arjuna wants Krishna to say, “Leave it all.” Then he can beat the drum across the world: “Don’t call it my quitting—Krishna himself testified.” Deep down, being a kshatriya, he fears only one thing—that someone might call him a coward. He wants a philosophical cover under which to turn his back. “If you doubt me, ask Krishna—he is my witness.”
But he doesn’t know whom he’s taking as witness. To make Krishna your witness is not easy. From Krishna you cannot borrow support for escape. He can give revolution, not refuge; transformation, not cover for your weakness.
Therefore whenever Krishna says anything remotely supportive of renunciation, Arjuna brightens: “Yes, yes! Exactly!” I see this every day: people sit before saints and say, “Exactly right, Maharaj!”—precisely where they feel their dishonesty gets support. If a saint says, “The soul is pure; it never sins,” the sinners nod enthusiastically: “Exactly! This is what we say.” That is why sinners gather around saints—and unless the saint has the courage of Krishna, listeners are harmed, not helped. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, saints become supports for people’s deceptions.
Krishna won’t be that support. The moment Arjuna can manipulate a statement into a crutch, Krishna cuts it to pieces. “Do not fall into this mistake. Do not think leaving action is easy. Without desirelessness, it is very difficult.”
And he adds: “Arjuna, desireless action is simple.” What Arjuna finds hard, he calls simple; what Arjuna finds simple, he calls hard. Keep this in mind.
To Arjuna, dropping action seems easy: “Leaving one’s wife and shop is not hard—especially when bankruptcy looms! In sorrow anyone can drop; in joy none.” Until now Arjuna had never been in such a crisis. If the enmity were clear like a Hindu-Muslim riot, there’d be no problem—no uncles, gurus, relatives across the line. But this was a family war; on both sides were his own—those who had raised him, taught him, loved him. Whichever side wins or loses, the dead are his own. So he wavered and sought philosophical exits. Otherwise, he is a master of killing—he could kill and then eat his meal without washing his hands.
He thinks: the simplest is to drop all. And what a wrong charioteer he chose! Beware of making God your charioteer—he will take your chariot where you don’t want to go. The day you made Krishna your charioteer, you made trouble. Whoever takes Krishna as charioteer will not have an easy road; the path will be thorny, though the attainment will be bliss. With a wrong charioteer, the road is easy but ends in hell.
As soon as Krishna sees Arjuna feeling, “Now he is supporting me,” Krishna steps aside. “Remember: without mastering desireless action, you cannot renounce. First fight—fight in such a way that no longing for the fruits remains. If you can transcend the fruits through action, then you may renounce later.” Arjuna will protest: “What is the point of renouncing then? By then the kingdom will be in hand!” Krishna says: “Do the battle without craving. When the kingdom comes and the war has passed, and desirelessness is established, then renounce.”
To Arjuna this seems very hard: “Suffer through sorrow and renounce in joy!” But that is religion’s demand. In sorrow everyone wants to renounce; that is natural, not religious. To renounce in joy is a great, ‘impossible’ revolution—and Krishna says, Arjuna, you must pass through that impossible revolution.
Enough for today.
Now, for five minutes, no one will get up. Not a single one. Our sannyasins have no other prasad to distribute—they will share their kirtan with you for five minutes. Let it echo in your hearts as you go. Take that prasad with you. And in between, no one gets up; if one rises, others are forced to. Sit for five minutes, taste this joy—and then leave quietly.
Osho's Commentary
In life, all around, we cannot experience anything without interpreting it. And any experience accompanied by interpretation is a distorted experience. In whatever we see, we ourselves get mixed in. Vision becomes vitiated.
A small incident comes to mind. I have heard that Ramdas, thousands of years after the time of Rama, rewrote the story of Rama. Rama is one, but there can be as many tellings as there are tellers. Yet this telling was such that Hanuman heard: it is worth your listening too. Hanuman had been a direct eyewitness to the story. Still, as the reports kept coming day after day, Hanuman would stealthily go to hear the tale that Ramdas wrote during the day and recited each evening among the devotees. It is a story, yes, but meaningful. And often stories carry a meaning deeper than even so-called facts.
The tale of Rama went on. Hanuman was thrilled. He was astonished to find that Ramdas, after thousands of years, was narrating it exactly as it had happened. This is very difficult. Those who see with their eyes even then do not describe exactly what happens. The eye gets involved; the gaze enters the event. Yet after thousands of years this man is telling it so precisely that even Hanuman cannot find a single slip. As if no interpretation is there at all; as if the event were unfolding before one’s eyes.
But at one place Hanuman found a mistake. Hanuman stood up and said: Forgive me; all else is right, but let us correct this a little. You are saying that when Hanuman entered the Ashoka grove, all around were flowers white as moonlight. This is wrong. When Hanuman entered the Ashoka grove, red flowers were in bloom everywhere, not white. Ramdas said: Sit down quietly. Do not talk nonsense. The flowers were white.
Hanuman had not yet revealed himself. He had not declared: I am Hanuman. He spoke again: Sir, please make the correction; I am saying it for a reason. Ramdas said: Do not create confusion in the middle. The flowers were white. Sit quietly. Compelled, Hanuman grew angry. If a man calls false what one has oneself seen! He revealed himself and said: I am Hanuman. Now say, what do you say? The flowers were red. Make the correction. Ramdas said: Even so, I say, sit quietly and do not create confusion. Be Hanuman if you are; still, the flowers were white.
This became quite an uproar. There was no way out, so Hanuman and Ramdas were taken before Rama. Hanuman said: Here is a man to whom I say the flowers were red, and he says the flowers were white. I am Hanuman. Thousands of years later these gentlemen are writing the story. But what a stubborn man! He tells me to sit quietly. Now you yourself please give the decision.
Rama said: Hanuman, ask forgiveness. The flowers were white; Ramdas is correct. You were so filled with anger that your eyes were blood-red. You must have seen red flowers. But the flowers were white.
It is possible. Whether or not the story be possible, it is certainly possible that in blood-filled eyes white flowers appear red.
In whatever we see, our eyes immediately intrude. We do not see what is. And the one who becomes capable of seeing only what is is called by Krishna a jnani.
Here Krishna says that by action, by desireless action, or by the renunciation of action; by Karma Yoga or by karma-tyaga, one attains the same ultimate state.
But only those can see that who see what is. Whose vision does not become a barrier to seeing. Whose own notions are not superimposed upon reality. Who put themselves aside and see—or say it this way: who become empty and see, who do not come in between. They see it thus: whether one lives in the world of action and drops all craving, or one drops action itself, the final attainment is one and the same.
But this is the realization of those who have no thoughts to impose. This is the state of those who are thought-free. This is the state of those who have no personal ideas to plant upon reality. The rest will see a contradiction between the two.
Opposition appears. Where is the life of action, and where the life of one who abandons all action and departs! If these two are not opposites, then what else in this world could be opposite! On one side, a person entangled in the small daily acts of life—Krishna standing on a battlefield. On the other, Buddha stepping aside, leaving the whole struggle of life. On the one hand, Janaka in palaces, in the dense marketplace of life, in the midst of empire. On the other, Mahavira, lest any karmic smear remain upon the body even from clothing, leaves even clothes and becomes naked. On one side, Muhammad, ready to struggle with the sword; on the other, Mahavira setting down his feet as if blowing upon them, lest an ant be crushed. To see these two as one is extremely difficult. It naturally seems that the two are opposite. They appear opposite.
But Krishna says: they appear opposite to the ignorant. This must be understood a little rightly.
In this world, wherever things appear opposite, they appear so because of ignorance. Wherever there is division, wherever there is duality, it appears so because of ignorance. There is no opposition even between darkness and light. Nor between birth and death. Birth is that very thing which death is. And darkness is that very thing which light is.
But this is seen only by one whose eyes are free of the smoke of thought, whose breath is cleared of the clouds of ego, whose inner life has become transparent. Who has become like a mirror. Who has nothing of his own; whatever appears, only that is reflected.
One who has become like a mirror, beyond dualities—he sees all paths as leading to Paramatma. He will say: Even Ravana, by his path, is reaching Paramatma; and Rama too, by his path, is reaching Paramatma. Seen that deeply, even the distance between Rama and Ravana falls away. But such deep seeing is possible only when the duality of thought has dissolved within us.
We do not see; we see through thought. Take note of this difference. You stand near a flower; a rose has bloomed. You think you see the rose, but you are mistaken. You do not even get to see the rose before a net of thoughts arises in the mind’s world. The mind feels: how beautiful! A thought has arrived. All the memories of your past experiences of roses stand in between. All that you have heard, all the conditioning since childhood. It is not necessary that if you had not been taught from childhood that the rose is beautiful, it would appear beautiful to you. Not necessary. Much is mere schooling.
Ask in China, and if a cheekbone protrudes, it is beautiful. In India it may not be so. What you have known since childhood as beautiful begins to appear beautiful. Across the world there are different measures of beauty. For a Negro, thick lips are very beautiful; hence some Negro women tie stones to their lips and let them hang to widen them. In our land, thin lips are the beauty. If someone’s lips are thick, he will keep pressing them inward so the thick lip does not show.
That the rose appears beautiful is a heard-and-learnt imprint. Is it thought, or is it seeing? It will be seeing only when you stand by the rose and only stand—do not think even a little. Let the rose descend through the eyes; do not let thought come in between. Let it reach the very breath; do not let thought come in between. Let it dissolve, mingle with your breathing. Let it become one with your life-breath. Let your inner consciousness and the rose’s consciousness be locked in an embrace; let no thought arise. Then what you will know is the knowing of the rose. Otherwise what you know is merely the repetition of what you had known about roses. That is not the knowing of the rose.
The one who becomes capable of such thought-free seeing in life finds even the most contrary paths to be one. He can say so.
Therefore Krishna says: to the foolish, to the unintelligent, they will appear very opposite. It will seem: where is the web of worldly action, and where is leaving all and sitting silent in a cave—how opposite these are. But Krishna says: They are not opposite. Why not? Because whether one drops desires or one drops actions, in both, one and the same state arises in consciousness.
One who has dropped desire finds action to be no more than acting, mere play. One who has dropped the craving for fruits finds action to be nothing more than a game, a lila. Whether he leaves action or not, no impression of action is imprinted upon his consciousness. For it is not actions that are imprinted; it is the craving for fruits that is imprinted.
Have you ever noticed that you are never troubled by action; you are troubled by the craving for its fruit. And if action troubles you, it does so because of the craving for fruit. The poison of pain lies in the craving for fruit, in expectation. The larger the expectation, the greater the pain that action brings. The smaller the expectation, the smaller the pain. The nearer to zero the expectation, the more pain departs. But we hardly know any action that we have done without the expectation of fruit.
Make an experiment. In twenty-four hours decide that you will do one small act without any craving for fruit. You are walking on the road. Someone’s umbrella falls. Pick it up and hand it to him. But do not pause on your return for his thank you. And if he does not thank you, watch within: does some sting not prick? If he does not thank, look within to see if a smoke of sadness does not descend. Does it not seem: what a person—did not even say thank you.
If there is expectation even of gratitude—which is a very small expectation, nominal, almost nothing—
That is why the clever keep saying thank you all day long, so that people’s unnecessary expectations might be satisfied. Nothing is lost to the one who gives thanks, but for the receiver it seems much is gained. It all hangs on expectation.
A small word—thank you—and within, a flower blooms. No thank you—and within, a bud withers. Even such a tiny expectation makes the life-breath sad or radiant. The larger the expectations, in that proportion the weight of sorrow increases; radiance and sadness rise and fall with expectation.
If in twenty-four hours a man does one act without expectation, he has prayed, he has done namaz, he has meditated. If a man does even one act in a day without expectation, without fruit, it will not be long before the web of his actions, slowly slowly, becomes free of expectation. For by doing that small act he will for the first time discover that life is neither in sorrow nor in joy, but has descended into a supreme silence. By that small deed he has become quiet.
Expectation promises happiness, delivers sorrow. An act without expectation plunges one into the ocean of deep peace. An act without expectation opens the doors of bliss.
See, experiment. And as it becomes clear, you will understand that if you act without expectation, the same final fruit comes as to the one who drops action. The man who runs away, leaving action, becomes quiet; no cause for restlessness remains. But the man who has dropped the craving for fruits—though all outer causes of unrest remain—the inner receptivity to unrest, the very capacity to be disturbed, is destroyed.
There are two ways. There is a mirror, and I stand before it. If I step aside, the picture on the mirror disappears. If I break the mirror and keep standing, even then the picture disappears. Break the mirror—still the result is that the picture is gone. Step aside and leave the mirror intact—still the result is that the picture is gone. The two acts are very different. But the result of both is one: the picture disappears.
Breaking the mirror is like dropping action. Stepping away yourself is like breaking desire. The mirror stays where it is; I simply move away. Action remains where it is; I remove my craving from action, remove the ego. I recede.
Therefore Krishna says: whichever of the two happens, Arjuna, the result is one and the same. But the wise know this. And those who know thus—their seeing is right seeing. Those who do not—their seeing is false seeing.
One last thing on this: not seeing is better than seeing wrongly. Eyes closed are better than false seeing. The one who does not see will, some day, soon enough, come to seeing. But for the one who sees falsely, the journey to true seeing is very long.
False knowledge is more dangerous than ignorance. Because ignorance has a humility; false knowledge has no humility. The ignorant says: I do not know. There is a deep humility, an egolessness. Because he feels: I do not know—the possibility of knowing remains continuously open.
The one with false knowledge thinks: I know; I know exactly. The door to knowing is closed. The journey of knowing does not even begin. And one who thinks he knows clings tightly to what he thinks he knows. Until false knowledge is removed, there is no way for right knowledge to descend.
Better that the hands be empty—then, if diamonds appear some day, empty hands can pick them up. But if the hands are clutched, mistaking pebbles and colored stones for diamonds, it is dangerous. For even if diamonds appear, they may hardly be seen. One whose fist holds colored stones and who thinks he has diamonds will scarcely open his hand and set out in this vast world to search for diamonds elsewhere. He already has them, so his journey is closed.
Krishna says: the one who can see the One between these two opposites—that one sees rightly.
To see the One between two opposites is the greatest experience in this world. To see the One between two opposites is the deepest, subtlest vision. It does not appear so. Sky and earth do not appear one. Where the sky, where the earth—two, clearly. Birth and death do not appear one—clearly two. Stone and consciousness do not appear one—clearly two.
But our clear seeing is very wrong. Sky and earth are not two. Can you tell where earth ends and sky begins? The sky surrounds the earth on all sides. Dig a pit in the earth. When you dig a well, do you think you are digging earth? You are mistaken. You are merely removing soil and revealing sky. When you dig a pit and make a well, sky is found within the ground. Keep digging and sky keeps appearing. Go through and through—dig here and emerge in America—and in between, only sky upon sky will have been found.
Scientists say the earth also breathes; it is porous. The earth is not without pores; it is full of pores. Scientists say that if we could condense the earth, if we could press out all the sky within it, we could make it as small as a child’s play-ball. But even that ball would be porous, and if science became more capable, it could be made smaller still.
Sky and earth are not separate, they are one. Scientists say earth is formed from sky itself; it is born of sky. As a whirlpool forms in water—water’s own whirlpool—so when the sky is filled with whirlpools, with nebulae, earths are formed. Then one day earth dissolves back into sky.
We know not how many planets daily dissolve into the sky, just as daily men dissolve into death. And daily children are born. Not only men are born—moons and stars are born daily; and daily moons and stars die. They are born from the empty sky, and they merge back into the empty sky. Sky and earth are not two.
You eat wheat; it becomes blood. It becomes consciousness. People say stone and consciousness are separate. Only the uncomprehending say so. For even soil, entering you, becomes sentient. What is your body more than soil? Therefore when you die tomorrow—dust unto dust—the soil falls back into soil. Of a dead man we say: quickly lift the earth. Until yesterday he was a man, alive, living. If someone had called him soil then, he would have drawn a knife. Today we say: quickly lift the earth.
All is lost in earth. From earth it came; therefore into earth it merges. Daily you eat earth. What you call food is nothing more than earth. Yes, it comes after passing a few stages, therefore it does not seem so.
In America, a botanist recently made a very strange experiment and was astonished. He planted a banyan tree in a pot. He measured the soil in the pot. He also kept measure of the water he poured. The tree grew large. When the tree became fully grown, he measured the tree and the pot. He was astonished. He took the tree out and measured; he was even more astonished. The tree had become hundreds of pounds, and the pot’s soil had decreased only by a pound and a half—and that, he says, did not go into the tree. That pound and a half was lost to the air, here and there, while watering.
From where did this tree come? This tree of hundreds of pounds! The soil gave a little, but the great donation was by the sky, by the winds, by water.
And perhaps we still do not know—at least science does not—that beyond all these donations there is another unknown source, that of Paramatma, which gives every moment. He has given. But that cannot be weighed in pounds. It is beyond any measure. Scientists thought perhaps it is all soil; that is mistaken. The sky too is contained in it. Therefore when you burn it, sky returns to sky; water to water as steam; the soil that is will return as ash into soil.
No, sky and earth are not separate. No, soil and consciousness are not separate. No, matter and Paramatma are not separate. But the ignorant see everything in twos—in opposition, in polarity. Until the ignorant make two, they cannot see. And the wise cannot see until they have seen the One in the two.
Therefore Krishna says: one who sees thus, truly sees. Both karma-sannyas and Karma Yoga lead to the same supreme state.